


And There Were No Orcs

by surreysmum



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-11
Updated: 2011-07-11
Packaged: 2017-10-21 06:58:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/222212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/surreysmum/pseuds/surreysmum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vignette: Legolas, Aragorn and Arwen take a peaceful trip on the river.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And There Were No Orcs

And There Were No Orcs: a Story About Nothing  
Author: Surreysmum  
Rating: G  
"Pairing": L/A/A  
Disclaimer: These characters aren't mine, and I have no mind to make any profit from them.  
A/N: Those with strong visual memories may be reminded of a few seconds from the wonderful Venice episode of the televised version of "Brideshead Revisited." This is not by accident.

 

Arwen half reclined in the prow of the Royal Gondola, her back to the standing oarsman, enjoying the gentle motion of the boat as it made its lazy way down the stream. The clear water was within reach of her fingertips, but for now she chose not to dabble her hand, so as not to dampen the long, lacy sleeves of her lightest summer gown. An indolent breeze barely touched her cheek before dying away. Even the very birds seemed to chirp more slowly in happy tiredness at the warm height of this Gondor midsummer day.

On either side the tall forest lent its branches to form a pleasing partial canopy for their water journey. Arwen set aside her parasol and glanced up at the oarsman, smiling her silent thanks for his care and patience. The smile he gave back was large and genuine: everyone loved Gondor's gentle, noble Queen.

Arwen's gaze returned to the two recumbent forms at her feet, dappled sunlight playing across them in intangible caress. Head cushioned at the stern, lips parted in quiet slumber, was the King of Men, Elessar Telcontar, Ruler of Gondor. Estel, heart of her heart. In sleep his habitually stern expression had relaxed into something close to innocence. Under the greying beard Arwen saw the humble, brash, complicated young man who had wooed and won her with mumbled words and yearning looks so many years past. A stray stain of strawberry at the corner of his mouth served as reminder of how they had gleefully fed each other fruit and bread and delicate, tasty cheeses at their picnic. Arwen closed her eyelids for a moment and ran her tongue along her teeth, still tasting the wine and kisses.

Halfway down Estel's right arm, Legolas rested his head comfortably. His own hand lay equally comfortably, casually, upon Estel's thigh. The clean lines of the Elf's ageless face were partially obscured by his unbound hair, which drifted across Estel's chest making the same unconscious, unequivocal claim as the motionless hand below. Arwen tilted her head and considered the living sculpture before her with a smile full of great affection, though a little wistful.

Legolas completed her as well as her husband, though in a different way. Both Elves knew the same slow unfurling of time; had seen rivers carve the Earth and wind shape the mountains. Where a mortal could only sense the occasional sparkle of another's spirit in the glance of an eye, Legolas and Arwen could see the steady glow of another's _fea_ , see its strength and its failures, and have the patient wisdom to let it pursue its own destiny. Neither would dream of depriving Estel of the other, for he loved and needed them both. Yes, Legolas understood, and Arwen loved him greatly for it; loved him in the deep quiet passionless manner of Elvenkind, and knew that he loved her likewise.

Legolas stirred slightly, and buried his face sideways with a little sigh into Estel's plain green tunic. Arwen smiled sleepily at herself as she had a passing impulse to reach forward and brush the hair from his face, or to wipe the little strawberry smudge from Estel's mouth. She was feeling much too lazy to move.

Leaning back against her cushion, the Queen of Gondor let her hand dip into the stream, lacy sleeve and all, and as the slow current slid between her fingers, ever present, ever ungraspable, she sank into a pleasant dream of endless days just like this.

 _finis_  
[My ficlist is here](http://surreysmum.dreamwidth.org/48133.html)

  


  
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